


round and round again

by kim47



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Friendship, Light Angst, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:20:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26059378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kim47/pseuds/kim47
Summary: The new girl working at the little market at the end of Cosette’s street looks familiar.
Relationships: Cosette Fauchelevent/Éponine Thénardier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42





	round and round again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fallingvoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingvoices/gifts).



> I wrote this about seven? eight? years ago for my dear friend Sara. I never published it because it didn't turn out quite how I wanted it, but I found it in my google docs yesterday and thought I might as well free it into the wild. Is Les Mis fandom even a thing still?
> 
> Fair warning, I am extremely not French and have only been to Paris twice in my life. Apologies if something is distractingly wrong on that front.
> 
> Title from Lianne Le Havas's Ghost, a Cosette/Eponine song if ever there was one.
> 
>  **Warnings** : non-explicit references to child abuse on the part of the Thenardiers.

The new girl working at the little market at the end of Cosette’s street looks familiar.

When she went in a week ago to get some bread and wine, she’d noticed her straight away. She was standing at the till, hair swept over one shoulder, a curiously defiant expression on her face. 

Cosette can’t tell if she really knows her, or if she’s just familiar in that disconcerting way strangers sometimes are. 

She smiles at her anyway when she pays for her things, and from the way the girl stares at her for a moment before taking her groceries, she wonders if she looks familiar to the girl, too.

*

Cosette wouldn’t say she’s unhappy, exactly. She has a natural tendency towards optimism, towards happiness, and there are long stretches of time when she doesn’t feel anything other than a quiet contentment with her life or pride in a particularly apt student.

But she’s lonely, even when she pretends she isn’t. She doesn’t have any close friends, not really. Her friends from university have fallen further and further out of touch, without the natural rhythms of a shared life to keep them together. She doesn’t have a job to go to where she meets people her age.

When she can’t stop thinking thoughts like this, she goes to her piano, plays things old and familiar until she feels settled inside.

*

The girl is definitely staring at her today. Every time Cosette glances over to her, she looks away, busying herself with nothing at the counter, but always sneaks another look at Cosette from under her lashes, as if she can’t help herself. Cosette wishes she knew why she looked so familiar. But she could be from anywhere -- school, or college, a sister or a friend of any one of her pupils.

She thinks of saying something when she reaches the counter, asking if they know each other, or if they went to the same school, perhaps. She doesn’t though, only exchanging greetings as the girl scans her items and places them in the bag Cosette handed her. 

“Thank you,” she says when she receives her change, smiling tentatively at the girl. The girl smiles hesitantly back, although there’s a look in her eyes that Cosette can’t decipher. She nods, leaves the market, and pushes it out of her mind.

*

Amelie’s mind is somewhere else today. Every time Cosette prompts her, she jerks back to attention and starts her piece again, fingers moving mechanically on the keys, but it’s clear her heart isn’t in it.

“Amelie,” Cosette sighs after she makes the same mistake four times in a row. “There is no point to this lesson if you don’t want to be here.”

To her surprise, Amelie blushes and looks embarrassed. “Sorry,” she says. “I’ll do better, I promise.”

Cosette glances at the clock. They only have ten minutes left. “It’s okay,” she says. “We can stop here for today. We’ll do ten minutes extra next week.”

“Thank you, miss,” Amelie says with a wide smile. She kisses Cosette on the cheek and stands up to collect her things. Cosette touches her cheek and smiles.

Amelie’s mother rolls her eyes when Cosette tells her about the lesson. 

“She’s probably thinking about that foolish boy from down the street,” she says. “She’s infatuated.”

Cosette smiles. “She’s sixteen, it’s understandable.” It’s not, though, to her. Cosette’s never felt anything like that, the dizzy rush of being with someone you’re infatuated with, the itching need to be close to them all the time. 

She wonders what it’s like.

*

Cosette wakes up with dissatisfaction prickling under her skin, and however she tries to distract herself, she can’t get rid of it. She plans her next six weeks worth of lessons for her pupils, and notes that Alexander will be moving from three classes a week to four as his exams approach. She cleans her kitchen, and rearranges all the furniture in her bedroom.

Nothing helps.

It’s a beautiful day, clear skies and crisp air, and she shrugs on her jacket and leaves her flat, hoping for something, anything, to get rid of the ennui. 

She walks around the park, stops to pet every dog that the owners will let her, and buys herself two scoops of ice cream in a cone. It eases something inside her for a while, but by the time she turns her feet back to her house, the feeling of restlessness has returned.

She doesn’t exactly mean to stop at the market, but she finds herself there anyway, staring at the selection of wines without really seeing. 

“Can I help you?” 

Cosette starts, turning to face the girl whose face is so familiar. 

“You’ve been staring at them for five minutes,” the girl adds. 

“What’s your favourite?” Cosette asks. The girl stares at her. 

“Shouldn’t you buy _your_ favourite?” she asks, tilting her head. She has big, dark eyes, and they’re fixed on Cosette. 

“I’d rather buy yours,” Cosette says without thinking. She doesn’t know why it’s true, but it is. “Then you can come and drink it with me.”

The girl freezes, and Cosette blushes. This isn’t like her. She’s about to take it back, cover it with an awkward joke, when the girl speaks. 

“I like a nice shiraz,” she says. Her eyes are assessing. “But I have work until nine.” 

“I’ll come back,” Cosette says. The whole conversation feels hopelessly out of her control, somehow. 

The girl just nods and goes back to the counter. 

“I’m Cosette,” she calls after her, feeling foolish. The girl smiles at her, a quirky, intriguing thing.

“I’ll see you at nine, Cosette,” she says.

*

She’s useless all afternoon, restless for a different reason now, and when the clock finally strikes nine, she puts her jacket back on and leaves her apartment.

The girl, Cosette still doesn’t know her name, is waiting on the corner of the street, smoking a cigarette and dangling one foot off the curb. She looks up as Cosette approaches, smiling when Cosette reaches her.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come back,” she says. Her voice is low and clear and utterly lovely. 

Cosette shrugs. “It never occurred to me not to.” 

“You promised me wine,” the girl says. 

“You haven’t even told me your name,” Cosette replies, although she takes a step back towards her apartment, and the girl follows her. 

“Eponine,” is the reply, given with a half-smile and a piercing look and Cosette doesn’t understand the tightening in her stomach or the flicker of recognition when she hears it.

It’s the height of the summer, so it’s only just twilight, Cosette’s favourite time of day. They walk in companionable silence for a while, and Cosette’s is surprised by the lack of awkwardness. 

“I live up there,” she says, gesturing to her apartment as they pass, “but I thought the park might be nicer, at least until it’s dark. I have the wine, and some food, if you’re hungry.” 

“Starving,” Eponine replies. Her voice is light, but there’s an edge to it that Cosette does not understand. 

The park is mostly empty, and Cosette pulls out the rug she’d packed from her bag and lays it out. Eponine looks amused as she settles on to it.

“You’re very organised,” she says, accepting the glass Cosette hands her. It sounds like a tease, and Cosette smiles. 

“When I want to be,” she replies. She pours them both some wine, and then nudges the bread she’s just unpacked towards Eponine. Eponine sips her wine and looks at her archly.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for the criminal type, though,” she says, and Cosette sputters a little. Eponine laughs. “It’s against the law to drink in this park,” she says, taking another sip, clearly savouring it. 

Cosette blushes. “I didn’t know,” she admits, “it didn’t even occur to me.”

“You’re not from Paris, then?” Eponine asks. “Or just unfamiliar with the complicated laws surrounding the consumption of alcohol in public places?” The way she says it makes Cosette smile.

“Not from Paris,” she says, a little wistfully. She wants to say more, but thinking of her life before Paris, of her father, revives the dissatisfaction of the morning. She pushes the thoughts away. “You?” she asks instead.

Eponine nods. “I’ve never been anywhere else,” she says, and Cosette blinks in astonishment. 

“Never?” she asks. Eponine shrugs. 

“Never had the chance. One day, though,” she adds, and now she sounds wistful. 

“Where would you go?” 

“Oh, everywhere,” Eponine says, laughing. “Anywhere but here.” She takes a pastry from the box and bites into it. The crumbs flake off around her mouth and she licks them away. “Where have you been?” 

“England, mostly,” Cosette replies. “I grew up in France, in the countryside, but I went to England for university. I’ve been to a lot of different places in Europe, though. Mostly for my music.” 

Eponine looks interested. “You’re a musician?” she asks.

“Music teacher,” Cosette corrects her. “I played in my university orchestra, and we sometimes travelled for performances. And now I teach.” 

“Let me guess,” Eponine says, eyeing her. The intensity of her stare makes Cosette feel exposed. “Flute?” 

Cosette stares back. 

“Yes,” she says. “That is, I played flute, but I mostly teach piano now. How did you know?”

Eponine shrugs, smiling a little. “Just a guess. It suits you.” 

Cosette doesn’t know what to make of that. 

“It’s getting dark,” she says instead, glancing around. “Do you -- ” She hesitates. She’s never had a friend to invite over before, and she’s not entirely sure how to go about it. “Do you want to come up to mine? We can finish the wine?” 

Eponine just nods, standing, and offers her hand to Cosette to help her up. She’s strong, when she pulls Cosette up, and her hands are a little rough. Cosette shivers. 

“Let’s go,” she says.

*

Eponine wanders around Cosette’s little apartment, looking curiously at everything. She runs her fingers along the spines of the books on the bookshelf, and stops to stare at the photos on her side table.

“Your father?” she asks, picking up the picture of Cosette and her father, taken when she was 13. It’s Cosette’s favourite photo of him, smiling wide and unreserved as he looks at her. 

“Yes,” Cosette says, setting the wine down on the coffee table and sitting on the sofa. 

“Does he live in Paris?” Eponine is still looking intensely at the photo, her finger hovering over Valjean’s face. 

“He died a year ago,” Cosette says, looking down. She hears the snick of the photo being set down again, and then Eponine is next to her on the sofa. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to -- ”

“It’s fine,” Cosette says, waving her off. She reaches for her wine glass. “Do you want to watch something?” She reaches for the remote to forestall any further conversation. 

“Anything,” Eponine says. She’s looking at Cosette closely, and Cosette flushes under the attention. She finds an old movie and sets down the remote, settling in to watch. The silence between them is fraught for a few minutes, but Eponine breaks it, asking after Cosette’s favourite films, and everything becomes easy again after that.

Eponine leaves when the movie ends, and Cosette, feeling unexpectedly bold, kisses her on the cheek.

“Goodnight,” she says, and Eponine smiles up at her.

“Goodnight,” she replies.

*

Cosette’s dreams that night are troubled. She’s in a house, and it’s dark, and she feels small and alone. There’s shouting coming from somewhere, although the house is empty, and it gets louder and louder until Cosette is trembling with fear. Suddenly, there’s a hand on her arm, wrenching her around, and she screams and --

She sits up in bed, heart pounding, trying desperately to catch her breath. She hasn’t had a nightmare since she was eleven, not even after her father died. She remembers, suddenly, how’d he’d come to her, turn on all the lights and gather her into his lap until she stopped shaking, and then put something silly on the television until she fell back asleep. She’s far too old for that now, she tells herself, but the tightness in her chest doesn’t ease. She turns on her bedroom light and gets back into bed. 

Cosette cries herself back to sleep.

*

She feels foolish the next morning, crying over nightmares like a child, so she cleans out her refrigerator like a sensible adult before her first pupil arrives. Amelie’s attention is much better today, although she smiles the whole time, and just nods happily when Cosette tells her to practice an extra thirty minutes a day before her next lesson.

“The boy down the road?” she asks Amelie’s mother when she arrives to collect her daughter. 

“Yes,” her mother says, rolling her eyes. “They’re inseparable.” 

When they leave, Cosette thinks for a moment, and then collects her jacket and phone and leaves the apartment. 

Eponine is working when Cosette enters the shop, serving an elderly man with a bored expression on her face. Her eyes brighten a little when she catches sight of Cosette, and Cosette’s heart speeds up. 

“Are you busy tonight?” she asks, walking up to the counter.

“You came down here just to ask me that?” Eponine says, a little teasing. “You could have just called.”

“I -- don’t have your phone number,” Cosette says, feeling a blush start. 

“Well, no, I’m not busy tonight, and here,” she says, scribbling down a number on a discarded receipt. “You can spare yourself a trip next time.”

*

Eponine arrives a little after nine with a DVD she declares to be “the best movie of all time, bar none”. Cosette inspects the cover doubtfully, but pops it into the player dutifully enough, and settles down to watch.

There’s little conversation, but Cosette is struck by the ease with which she settles into Eponine’s companionship. It reminds her, just a little, of quiet nights spent with her father -- no need for talking, just quiet enjoyment in someone else’s presence.

*

“Do you have any siblings?” Eponine asks, glancing at the photos again. They’re all of Cosette and Valjean, no one else. Cosette shakes her head. “I never knew my mother and my father never married,” she says. “It was just him and me. Do you?”

Eponine laughs, but the sound is bitter. “More than I know what to do with,” she says. “I don’t... I don’t see my family much any more. At all, really. Except my younger brother, when I can.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cosette says. The topic of their families feels fraught with danger. “I always wondered what it would be like to have siblings,” she muses. “I never thought I’d like it much.”

“I’m sure there are good siblings in the world,” Eponine says, “though I never experienced any.” She hesitates before she speaks again. “It seems like you and your father were close though?” she asks carefully.

“We were,” Cosette agrees, and then surprises herself by continuing.“He wasn’t my biological father. I know that he loved my mother, and that she died in childbirth, but he said he knew when my mother was pregnant that the child wasn’t his.” There’s a strange relief in talking about it; she never has before. “But he adopted me when I was seven, and he never treated me as anything but his own daughter.” 

There’s a gaping hole in the story, and Cosette almost hopes that Eponine asks about it, that she prods at the wound, forces Cosette to speak about it. Eponine doesn’t.

“That must have been nice,” she says, and her eyes are distant. “My own father is...” She trails off. “Well, the less said about him the better,” she concludes, with a strange, tight laugh. “I don’t miss them at all,” she adds, and Cosette almost believes her. 

“Are they…” she hesitates, not knowing how to finish the sentence.

“Oh, they’re alive,” Eponine says. “It would take an act of god to kill them, I think. But I left home when I was fifteen and I haven’t spoken to them since.” 

Cosette gapes. Eponine snorts, and reaches out to nudge Cosette’s leg with her hand. 

“If you knew them, you wouldn’t be shocked,” she says. “I’m better off without them.” 

“So what did you do?” Cosette asks. She can’t imagine being alone in the world at sixteen. It’s hard enough now, seven years beyond that, and with everything her father left her. “How did you -- ”

“Stole, mostly,” Eponine says. “Just petty theft, really. I sold pot for a while.” 

Cosette stares. “You’re a criminal?” she asks before she can stop herself. 

Eponine snorts.

“I _was_ a criminal, if you can really call it that,” Eponine corrects. “I did what I had to do to survive. Some of it was stupider than the rest, and I left it behind the moment I could.” She shrugs. She’s entirely unlike anyone Cosette has ever met, and Cosette is addicted.

“Can I ask,” she starts, and Eponine laughs at that and interjects,

“I think we’re beyond you having to ask to ask.”

“How did you get out of it?”

“I met a boy,” Eponine says, and rolls her eyes. Cosette feels simultaneously hot and cold, and she draws back a little. “He was this rich kid, a complete idiot, and he just knew I could do so much more, _Eponine, I know you could_.” Her face belies her mocking tone - her expression is soft, and a little sad. “He’s the most insistent, stubborn person I have ever had the misfortune to meet. He got me a job in one of his grandfather’s companies -- data entry, administration, that kind of thing. Boring shit, but it -- it helped. I worked there for two years, managed to save some money.”

“What happened to him?” Cosette is almost afraid to ask.

“Oh, nothing morbid, there’s no need to look so grim,” Eponine says. “His grandfather shipped him off to England to work in his London office. He still calls me sometimes.”

“Were you in love with him?” Cosette blurts out. She doesn’t know what she wants to hear, but she draws closer again, her hand brushing against Eponine’s shoulder where it rests against the sofa back. 

“Utterly and completely,” Eponine says, and she sounds sweet with it. Cosette loves and hates that. 

“And now?” Cosette asks, after a pause, unsure if she’s talking about the job or the boy. 

“Now I’m at university,” Eponine says, “hence the new job that lets me work part time. And no longer in love with the boy,” she adds. Cosette feels a rush of something like relief, and then embarrassment at her reaction. 

“I’ve never been in love,” she says, flushing a little. Her heart is racing a little, which makes her feel foolish, but she doesn’t want to change the subject. 

“It’s awful,” Eponine says, leaning forward to pour them both another glass of wine. “I don’t recommend it.” 

Cosette laughs.

“Really though, a pretty girl like you?” Eponine continues, her voice teasing. “Never felt the slightest stirring of love? No taste for romance?”

She’s leaning forward, curious, and Cosette feels pinned by her gaze. 

“Not yet,” she says. Eponine’s face is close, closer than she’d thought, and Cosette feels an almost irresistible desire to reach out and brush her fingers against Eponine’s cheek. “Maybe one day.”

“Maybe,” Eponine echoes.

*

“You seem happy, miss,” Alexander says, unprompted, halfway through their lesson.

“Am I usually unhappy?” Cosette asks, teasing. Alexander blushes. Cosette knows he has a crush on her, and it’s cute. 

“No,” he says earnestly, “but you’re smiling more than usual today.”

“I will smile more if you play that again, paying proper attention to the pedalling this time,” Cosette replies, and tries to school the smile that’s been bubbling at the surface since Eponine left the night before. Alexander nods, and begins to play. He’s immensely talented, only twelve and already Cosette’s most accomplished student. This piece was one of her father’s favourites, but that memory doesn’t hurt like it used to, and the sweetness of the melody under Alexander’s fingers warms her already good mood.

“Much better,” she says, and takes a box of truffles off the dining table. “You deserve a reward.”

*

Eponine is in a strange mood when she arrives at Cosette’s, and none of Cosette’s gentle teasing can get any explanation out of her. She’s not rude, but she’s melancholy and restless, as though she has something bubbling under the surface that she can’t decide whether to do something about.

“At least eat something,” Cosette says, nudging the open container of noodles towards Eponine. Eponine takes one bite and then puts her fork down. 

“I spoke to my brother today,” she says abruptly. 

“Oh,” Cosette says. “Okay. How is he?” 

“As well as can be expected,” Eponine says, bitterness edging her voice. She’s never said much more than that about her brother’s circumstances, but Cosette’s imagination can fill in the gaps.

“I’m sorry,” she says awkwardly. 

“Sorry for what?” Eponine snaps.

“That you have such a shitty family,” Cosette blurts out, because it’s true. Eponine deserves people who would love and take care of her, not this. 

Against all expectation, Eponine smiles, although it’s a sharp, sad thing.

“I’m sorry you don’t have any family at all,” she tells Cosette, her voice soft enough to ease the sting of her words. 

They’re facing each other now, sitting as close on Cosette’s sofa as they always do, and this time Cosette doesn’t resist the urge to reach out. She brushes Eponine’s cheek with her fingers.

“I’ve never heard you swear before,” Eponine whispers, suddenly only inches away. 

“I grew up in a nunnery,” Cosette whispers back. Eponine does laugh at that, but rather than reply, she closes the gap between them and kisses Cosette.

Cosette didn’t expect this, not yet, but she welcomes it. Eponine’s lips are warm and soft and hungry, and Cosette can’t get enough of them, leaning back in every time Eponine pulls away, dragging her back in. She’s never felt hunger for someone like this before. Eponine’s hands are in her hair, soft but urgent, and Cosette leans into it, relishing the contact. 

She gets her hands on Eponine’s shirt and pulls until Eponine is sprawled on top of her, and Cosette can tuck her hands under the back of her shirt, Eponine’s skin warm under them. She feels slightly dizzy, lack of oxygen and surprise and anxiety all contributing to it. 

“We should,” Eponine starts, but Cosette takes her mouth again before she can continue. 

“Bedroom?” she gasps out next time they part. “If you want to…”

Cosette nods frantically, not trusting her voice, not wanting to stop and think in case she panics too much to go through with this. She wants this, so badly, more than she can ever remember wanting anything. 

Her bedroom is neat, but she thinks Eponine wouldn’t notice if it were on fire. She’s kissing Cosette as she backs her into the room, her hands now under Cosette’s shirt and roaming freely, never parting from her long enough to actually see the room. Eponine’s shirt had been lost on the sofa, and Cosette can’t stop running her hands along the soft cotton of her bra, desperate to take it off. 

They fall back onto the bed, and Cosette only vaguely registers something digging into her hip. It’s inconsequential, next to the feeling of Eponine on top of her, her hands skipping Cosette’s hips and thighs, teasing at the seam between them just hard enough for Cosette to feel it.

“God,” she breathes, arching up towards Eponine, the blasphemy unregarded. Eponine sits back, straddling her thighs, and Cosette sits up to follow her, still desperate for her kisses. 

“Let’s just -- let me get rid of -- ” she says, in between kisses. Her laptop was on the bed, she remembers, and that ridiculous doll she should have gotten rid of years ago, that she’s far too old to still have. 

Eponine shifts back a little to give her room, still rocking her hips slightly in an entirely distracting fashion, and her eyes appear to take in the room for the first time. Cosette reaches for the laptop by her thigh, and she’s about to reach for the doll, whose arm is now digging into her side, when Eponine goes suddenly, abruptly still.

Cosette looks up at her, and Eponine’s eyes are fixed on where she’s holding her laptop and her doll. 

“Is that,” Eponine starts, voice barely above a whisper, fingers reaching out to brush the doll’s dress. Cosette feels like a foolish child. 

“It’s just a memento, really,” she says. “My father bought it for me -- ”

She can’t finish because Eponine flinches back and then scrambles off the bed.

“Shit, shit, I can’t -- ” she says, scrambling to pick up her tshirt from the floor. “ _Fuck_ ,” she says.

Cosette has no idea what’s happening. 

“Eponine, what -- ” she starts, embarrassed that her voice isn’t steady. She’s out of breath and her heart is pounding, although not for the reason it was two minutes ago. 

“I’m sorry,” Eponine says, and now she sounds pleading. She’s clutching her shirt in front of her, looking at Cosette with wide, pleading eyes. “I’m sorry,” she repeats, and then she backs out of the room. By the time Cosette scrambles off the bed and makes it to the living room, Eponine has her jacket and her shoes in hand, and the front door is open. 

“Eponine!” she calls, feeling frantic, and Eponine freezes in the doorway, looking torn. Cosette reaches for her, and not knowing what else to do, kisses her again. To her amazement, she realises Eponine is crying. 

“I’m sorry,” Eponine says again, pulling away, and then she’s gone.

*

The next day, Cosette tries calling Eponine six times, with no reply. She’s about to call a seventh time when she realises that Eponine clearly wants nothing to do with her, and she feels cold all over.

She can’t focus on anything; she’s listless and restless all day. She tries going for a walk, but it starts to rain and her mood only darkens. At home, nothing can hold her attention, and she misses her father more than she can stand.

The following day isn’t much better, but Cosette thinks she gets through it admirably. Neither of her pupils comment on her mood, at least, and she goes a few hours without thinking of Eponine, until something in her flat inevitably reminds Cosette of her.

It’s embarrassing, how much she misses Eponine. They’ve been friends for barely three weeks, but Cosette feels her absence acutely. The solitariness of her former life that she’s now returned to feels heavy, unbearable.

*

A week and a half later, Cosette is leaving her flat one morning, vague thoughts of shopping and distraction in her mind, when she sees Eponine lurking outside her building. Cosette’s heart stutters.

“Hi,” Eponine says when she realises Cosette has seen her, standing up straight and shoving her hands in her pockets. “Can we talk?”

Cosette wants to say no, after being kissed within an inch of her life, of being made to ache with want and then have it snatched away, but of course she says yes. 

Eponine glances up at Cosette’s window, but Cosette can’t bear the thought of having Eponine back there so she starts walking and Eponine falls into step beside her. They walk silently for a while, Cosette leading the way towards the park where they first spent time together. It is surprisingly not awkward, although the air between them feels thick with anticipation. 

Cosette resents that. 

They sit on a bench, late morning sunlight warming their faces, and Cosette waits. 

“Marius said I need to talk to you,” Eponine says eventually. 

“Marius?”

“Do you remember the boy I told you about, once? The one who...helped me?” Eponine is fiddling with the hem of her jacket. 

“You talked to him about me?” Cosette asks, unsure how to feel. Eponine nods. 

“Non-stop, he would probably say,” she says, a half smile curling her lips.

“Okay,” Cosette says, and resumes her waiting. After a minute, Eponine sighs. She shuffles a little further away from Cosette on the bench and half-turns to face her.

“You told me your father adopted you when you were seven,” she says, seemingly apropos of nothing.

“Yes?” Cosette says, confused. 

“Where did you live before that?” Eponine asks, and Cosette’s stomach plummets. 

“I don’t -- what does that have to do with anything?” she asks. Her heart is pounding. 

“Please,” Eponine says. “I’m sorry, but... Please.” She reaches out as if to touch Cosette’s arm but snatches her hand back at the last minute. 

“I lived in foster care,” Cosette says flatly. She stares at the ground. “I was moved around a lot, at first, or so I’m told. But I was with one family for most of what I remember.” 

“Do you remember much about them?” Eponine asks, quietly. 

Cosette has a strange feeling, like something strange and awful is hanging just past where she can see. 

“No,” she replies, turning to look at Eponine. “But I remember it was awful.” 

Eponine nods. 

“I know,” she says, meeting Cosette’s eyes, and that strange sensation Cosette remembers from that first time she saw Eponine in the store returns. Like she knows her from another life, somehow.

“Stop being so cryptic,” she snaps, fear coiling its way around her heart for reasons she doesn’t understand. “What are you talking about?” 

“The parents were mean, right?” Eponine says. “Cruel and greedy and they worked you to the bone even though you were just a child. They made you cook and clean and you slept on the floor and -- ”

Cosette can feel the memories in the corners of her mind, the ones she almost doesn’t remember. It’s impressions mostly; cracked knuckles from scrubbing floors, harsh, angry words, being cold, so cold she thought she’d die. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes. 

“Why are you -- ”

“And they had children, didn’t they? Two daughters, and a baby boy.” Eponine’s voice is barely above a whisper now, but Cosette can hear every word. “The daughters were mean to you, too. They would push you and tease you and get you in trouble.” 

Small hands on her shoulders, shoving her. 

“Eponine,” Cosette says, helpless.

“I’m sorry,” Eponine says. Her eyes are big and pleading; desperate. 

And Cosette remembers her. Or at least, she remembers a girl. A year or two older than her, pretty and charming and mean. She and her sister would take whatever little peace Cosette could scrape together for herself and destroy it. Cosette remembers, flashes of all the things her mind had hidden from her, of those first miserable years of her life.

“Azelma,” Cosette says. “That was your sister’s name, wasn’t it.”

“Yes,” Eponine replies. “It still is.”

Cosette’s thoughts feel hopelessly tangled.

“How long have you known?” she demands, reaching out to grasp Eponine’s arm. It’s probably hurting her but Cosette doesn’t care. 

“I knew the minute I saw you,” Eponine says, and Cosette’s hand tightens on her. “You look the same. Cleaner, happier, prettier, but still, I recognised you. I’ve thought about you a lot over the years.” 

“What do you want from me?” Cosette demands. “Why would you -- ”

“I don’t want anything from you,” Eponine snaps, drawing back. Cosette’s nails scrape along her forearm, leaving long, red marks. “That’s not why I -- ”

“You thought it would be funny, then? Thought you’d pick up where you left off, all those years ago?”

“No, of course not,” Eponine says.

Cosette is abruptly aware that her cheeks are wet, but whether the tears are from anger or hurt, she can’t tell. 

“I thought you were my friend,” she says helplessly. Her only real friend. And not only that but - Cosette shakes the thought away.

“I am,” Eponine replies. “I want to be.” 

Cosette, under her fury, wants desperately to believe her. And that hurts more than anything, so Cosette gets up and walks away.

Eponine doesn’t follow her.

*

Cosette, unsurprisingly, can’t sleep that night.

She picks through the memories, hazy as they are. She can’t remember the Thenardiers’ faces, but she remembers the voices. 

She gets up at 3 am and makes tea, taking it into her sitting room and perching by the window.

She remembers the day her father came for her, although all the details except his face have always been hazy. She has impressions of the house, and of the courtroom, and of shouting and rough hands, but all she really remembers is his kind smile and his soft voice. Buying her that doll that she (and Eponine, and Azelma, she now remembers) had all longed for, that sat in the window of the fancy toy shop across from the Thenardier’s pub.

More than anything, Cosette longs to speak to her father. He’d always brushed off questions about her past and his, and she’d always let him, content to trust that he knew what was best and that nothing that lay behind her would bring her anything but pain. She misses him so much, it’s a physical ache in her chest, and she brushes her fingers over the picture on the side table. 

She hates Eponine for doing this to her, for stirring up things that were always best left in the past and forgotten. But she also feels foolish and childish for her reaction, for the raw anger and hurt Eponine had been able to provoke in her. 

It’s been almost twenty years, twenty years of repressing and forgetting and Cosette doesn’t know what to do now that she can’t.

*

Cosette doesn’t sleep well the whole week, plagued alternately by bad dreams and insomnia. She feels the isolation of her life acutely; it had never bothered her particularly, before. She’d always had situational friends, at school, at university, and her pupils and acquaintances; she’d had her father.

Since his death, she’d had more and more moments of loneliness, but there had always been someone willing to have a meal with her, or see a movie, to stave off the feeling long enough. But Eponine had been something else, somehow, a real friend. Someone she’d connected with more or less instantly, in a way that had never happened to her before. 

Eponine had mentioned once that she’d like to introduce Cosette to her friends. Cosette liked the idea, although it made her a little nervous. She’d thought it would happen, soon, and that she might, in time, have more than just Eponine in her life.

And now she doesn’t have even that.

She thinks about Eponine as she cleans her flat, and for the first time since they’re meeting, her primary feeling isn’t anger. She makes herself a sandwich and takes it out onto the little balcony facing the street. It’s a beautiful day, blue skies and crisp air, and she tilts her face towards the sun. 

The memories are still hazy, but she feels ready to examine them now. It had been unremittingly awful; she’d been terrified and lonely and desperate. The Thenardiers were hard, cruel people, seemingly without a shred of empathy or warmth, and they’d abused Cosette shamelessly.

But Cosette had escaped. 

Her father had come for her, taken her away, and given her a life full of music and love and beautiful things. 

No one had come for Eponine. 

Cosette can’t imagine staying there, living with those awful people for fifteen years. Eponine hadn’t given much detail about her life to Cosette, but it had been enough for Cosette to draw inferences; poverty, abuse, desperation. 

Eponine had escaped, in time, but she’d had to do it on her own. Cosette can’t quite believe that the Eponine she knows, or thought she knew, is still so optimistic. She can be sarcastic, and there’s a bitter edge to her that Cosette longs to soften, but she’s still so full of light. 

It takes Cosette three days to work up the courage to send the message. Every time she picks up her phone, her heart starts to race and she has to distract herself with something else.

But she thinks of her father, of his bravery and his love, and eventually, it steadies her hands.

*

Cosette (07:46) _Can we talk?_

*

Eponine meets her at a cafe ten minutes from her flat. It had taken Cosette a whole night’s worth of second guessing herself to actually send the message, but now that Eponine is sitting across from her, she doesn’t regret it.

“I’m glad you came,” she says. Eponine smiles, but her eyes are guarded.

“I’m glad you messaged me,” she says. There’s an awkward pause. Cosette clears her throat. 

“I just wanted to...talk.” 

“So you said.”

They both sigh. 

“Cosette—”

“Eponine—”

Cosette waves for Eponine to go first. She takes a sip of her coffee before continuing. 

“I’m not sure what else to say.” She’s fiddling with her coffee cup, not meeting Cosette’s eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I didn’t know how. I thought you wouldn’t talk to me if you knew, and I wanted you to talk to me.” 

Cosette nods. “I probably wouldn’t have,” she admits. 

“And I know it’s useless, that it was a long time ago and there’s no changing the past, but—I’m sorry for everything that happened then, too.” 

Cosette reaches out and touches Eponine’s hand. 

“I know,” she says. “I haven’t thought about that time in so long, I thought I’d managed to forget it ever happened.”

“I wish you had,” Eponine replies. Her fingers brush over Cosette’s. 

“Everything feels so fucked up,” Cosette says, and Eponine smiles just a fraction when she swears. “I don’t know how we can have any kind of normal relationship, with that kind of history.” 

Eponine draws her hand back, but Cosette chases it. She thinks, this time, she has to be the brave one. 

“But I’d like to try.”

Eponine’s head snaps up. 

“ _Really_?” she says, incredulity colouring her voice.

“Eponine, you were a child,” Cosette says. She’s been thinking about this for two weeks now and this is the inescapable conclusion she’s come too. “A child in an abusive home. Everything about what happened to us was fucked up,” she says again. “But I don’t want to lose the chance at whatever this friendship is, just because of that.” 

Eponine bites her lip, looking torn. 

“I don’t know if I can—” she starts. “I still feel guilty. About so many things, not just this, and you’re so,” she waves her hand at Cosette. “You’re sunshine. I don’t know if I want to mess with that.”

Cosette turns her hand over and twists her fingers through Eponine’s. 

“I don’t have a lot of people in my life,” she says. “I’ve never had someone in my life like you, someone I wanted to fight for. No one but my father. I’m not willing to give that up,” she says, trying to infuse her voice with the determination she isn’t sure she feels. It would be so much easier to give up on this and go back to her solitary life. But it wouldn’t be brave. 

Eponine’s eyes, to Cosette’s horror, are starting to shine, but she meets Cosette’s gaze steadily. 

“Okay,” she says, squeezing Cosette’s hand.

“Okay,” Cosette echoes. 

She squeezes Eponine’s hand back, and leans in to kiss her softly. Eponine startles, then kisses back. 

“That too?” Eponine asks when they separate, and Cosette can hear the hope in her voice.

“If you’d like,” she says. “I think I am ready to give romance a try.”


End file.
